


Unwritten Rules

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Deflowering, M/M, Revolutionary War, first-time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France/US.  France gives Revolutionary America some lessons in diplomacy. Sexy diplomacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwritten Rules

**Title: Unwritten Rules**

**Author:** jedishampoo

 **Pairing:** France/America

 **Rating/Warnings:** R-18 (sex, seduction of the virginal)

 **Summary:** France gives Revolutionary America some lessons in diplomacy. Sexual diplomacy.

 **Author’s Notes:** For the prompt on my tumblr, “Smut, France/US,” and since I’d been discussing France deflowering America, here it is. Mostly historically accurate as I could be regarding time and attitudes, and mostly angst-free! I apologize that it’s not nearly as smutty and teaching-detailed as it could be, and I wish I could have done the subject more justice, but I really enjoyed writing their conversations and relationship. Thanks to my awesome betas, sharpeslass and whymzycal! And thanks to anon requester for the push to write a Hetalia pairing that is not UKUS.

 

 **February, 1778**  
  
America had thought he’d have to meet the King, and so he’d brought his best suit with him to France. But it was only his first night and already he could see that even the footmen in France’s fine houses were dressed better than he would ever be.  
  
 _It is a good thing Monsieur Franklin has brought American plainness into some fashion_ , the valet who’d unpacked his clothes earlier that day had muttered -- beneath his breath but loud enough for America to hear.  
  
America’s cheeks warmed as he sipped his wine. He wasn’t sure whether his flush was caused by embarrassment at his own rusticness, the gallons of alcohol France was trying to pour into him, or the philosophical naughtiness that passed for dinner conversation at Monsieur de Chaumont’s chateau. It was enlightening and stimulating, but maybe too much all at once.  
  
He hadn’t wanted to leave his home, his Revolution, but he was learning that if he wanted to be a nation, alliances had to be made. And as Mr. Franklin had told him, if one wanted an alliance with France, one had to charm France into it. It was all so different from how things had been done with England! England never tried to charm anyone.  
  
A lady to his left, with hair that reached toward heaven and cleavage that reached for the floor, leaned her bosoms against his arm and whispered in his ear. He could smell the powder in her hair.  
  
“If you prove civil, monsieur, the ladies will allow you to kiss them, as Monsieur Franklin does.”  
  
America felt his cheeks go up in flames. On his right, France leaned in and set his lips very nearly upon America’s other ear.  
  
“It’s true, you know! Ah, my dear America, you are so very charming!”  
  
“I am?” America perked up at that. If he could manage by just being his rustic self, things might go pretty well. “Ha ha, that’s good, right?”  
  
“Of course! And Big Brother France is the expert, after all. Hon hon!”  
  
France’s breath in America’s ear made the skin on his shoulders tingle and shiver. It wasn’t a bad feeling, just … uncomfortable. So he turned to look at France instead.  
  
That was nearly worse. France was still close, very close, his eyes crinkled at the corners with his grin. They looked bluer under his white wig. He licked his lips, and America was suddenly very sure that France was looking at his mouth.  
  
France had always gobbled up people with his eyes like they resembled tasty cakes or something. Naked tasty cakes. But here, somehow, the look was … different. France was different. He was in his element, being sought instead of seeking, and this time America was the one who had to offer a tantalizing plate of goodies.  
  
“So you think you might want to help me?” he said.  
  
France pulled away a little at that. He gave a shrug and sipped his wine. “Am I not helping you already? I have sent you loans that I can hardly afford to make, no?”  
  
America wasn’t so sure about that. True, France’s last war had been expensive, since he’d been beaten pretty thoroughly by England -- he, America, had helped, though he hoped France might forget about that -- and on his journey through Paris, America had seen some very poor people. But the rich -- they lived so high on the hog that America’s brain could hardly process the luxury. America had rich people, but not like this. And he had soldiers back at home who didn’t even have shoes …  
  
Charm, he thought. “Oh, yeah, of course. Thanks! But I was. Um. Also hoping for ships and soldiers and things like that?”  
  
“Ah.” France signaled for a be-wigged and be-velveted footman to pour more wine into America’s glass. America figured he’d better try to drink it, just to be nice. France watched him take a gulp of the wine, his gaze still looking pretty darned focused on America’s mouth. “But what shall I receive in return?”  
  
“Oh! Well.” America thought about what his boss and Mr. Adams had told him. “My-- my alliance and trade? And you’ll get another chance to punch England. I know how you like that.”  
  
“Hmm! England being the natural enemy of France, after all.” France smiled and slid his arm across America’s chair back. America could feel it, nearly touching his shoulders but not quite. “And I love friendship! But you have so much to learn, America. You are like a babe cast among the wolves.”  
  
America tightened his fingers around his wineglass and had to consciously relax his grip, afraid he’d otherwise break it. He was getting a little tired of being treated like a child. England had done it, and now France was doing it. “I know lots of stuff. I declared my own independence, didn’t I? I have smart people. Look at Mr. Franklin.”  
  
France narrowed his eyes for a moment, but then he smiled again and looked around the table. “To be sure! We are lucky to be blessed with the presence of Monsieur Franklin, who is a philosophical and scientific giant among men.”  
  
“Thank you, but I am simply a homespun sage, Monsieur,” Mr. Franklin said from down the table. “Like all Americans, I have realized the value of hard work, clean living and piety.”  
  
America raised his eyebrows. He’d never known Mr. Franklin to be very religious.  
  
The lady next to America tittered. “Americans are so pure and simple. I admire such virtuousness!”  
  
Somewhere a gentleman spoke up in a slightly slurred voice. “And they pray all the time.”  
  
America felt himself warm again, this time all over, not sure if he was being mocked or not. Or perhaps it was because he also felt France’s arm nudge his back and France’s fingers as they lightly traced the seam of his jacket at his shoulder.  
  
The lady leaned over to look down the table, fixing her cleavage almost right under America’s nose. “Do they pray when they make love?”  
  
France’s fingers squeezed America’s upper arm.  
  
“But of course!” Mr. Franklin said and raised his wine glass at the table in general. “For what else should we be more thankful?”  
  
Everyone laughed. Several people looked at him, America. He grinned a little _ha ha_ to show that he wasn’t scandalized at all. Nope. None of England’s high-society dinners had been like this, though. The French were just so … French.  
  
France used his grip on America’s shoulder to jiggle him closer. “Why, you are positively crimson, my America! Whatever is the matter?”  
  
“Oh. Am I?” America took another sip of the wine, feeling the tingle of it all the way from his throat to his stomach. He wished it would relax him a little more; he’d never minded being the center of attention before. He set down his glass onto his spoon with an awkward _clink_ , but caught and righted the glass before it spilled. To cover his clumsiness he pointed at his poofy white cravat. “I guess I have a lot of necktie on. The man told me it was the fashion.”  
  
“And it looks very well on you. Big Brother France is the expert, again.” France slid his hand down America’s arm to clasp his side and stood, pulling America up with him and against his chest into a hug that didn’t feel quite brotherly. “Perhaps you have had too much wine, hmm? Should I take you away to rest? Or are you so beautifully colored because you are enjoying the conversation?  
  
America shrugged. The action didn’t dislodge France one whit. He wondered why people weren’t staring at them; perhaps they were used to seeing France -- or people in general -- snuggling all over each other around the dinner table.  
  
“Well, maybe it’s a little more … Continental than I’m used to,” he admitted.  
  
“Ah, yes. Poor boy! I shall rescue you,” France breathed in his ear. Then he turned and looked down the table at their hosts. “You will excuse us, please? I have business to discuss with my dear counterpart, here.”  
  
“Of course, of course,” they waved, and everyone else waved, and Mr. Franklin smiled at him, and America felt his shoulders relax a little. Obviously nobody was scandalized by France here or was acting like there was any reason for America to be nervous. And business was exactly what he’d come to discuss, after all.  
  
“There are government ministers here, and so I suppose we should listen, or at least wait for the port and cigars,” France said as he steered America out of the room and down a hallway. “But, ah -- they understand what we are! And they shall forgive me.”  
  
“Was that rude?” America asked. He took a couple of steps to the left to see if France would loosen the arm around his back a little. France only followed him and pressed his hand into America’s chest, as if to steady him. America wondered if France could feel the somewhat frantic thump of his heart through his waistcoat.  
  
“Hmm. No, only impolite, and that is the important thing.”  
  
“I’m not sure I -- um, okay,” America said. He’d thought he’d studied all the rules, along with his French, on the voyage over, but there were so many unwritten rules.  
  
Somehow they’d reached the top of the stairs. France smiled at America and patted his waistcoat. “So! Shall we adjourn to your quarters or mine?”  
  
“I thought we were going to discuss business?” America said, narrowing his eyes. He wondered why they hadn’t just gone to one of the libraries or sitting rooms. He was out of his depth, no doubt about it. He would never admit it aloud, however, because to do so would lose him any edge he had in this diplomacy stuff. Don’t show any weakness! Mr. Adams had admonished him.  
  
“Of course we are! You will learn our ways, dear America, never fear.” France smiled again and his smile was so normal -- and for a moment, not-predatory -- that America relaxed once more. Being so nervous was going to drive him crazy if he wasn’t careful!  
  
“My room, then,” America said. “I have papers.”  
  
“I look forward to seeing them!”  
  
But when they reached America’s room and shut the door behind them, France didn’t let him head for his papers. He did release America for a few moments, but only to draw back the bedcurtains and sigh happily before grabbing America’s fingers and pulling, hard. America thought he was supposed to end up pressed against France again but instead he tripped and fell backwards onto the bed. He was hardly given time to take a breath before France was leaning atop him, pinning him to the mattress. America supposed he could have shoved France off, but he was to be _charming, charming, charming_ , he reminded himself.  
  
“Oh, America! Are you drunk? Perhaps you are not used to drinking wine in the French manner? You and your Puritan ways.” France’s breath on his chin was warm and smelled pleasantly of claret.  
  
“No, I’m not drunk,” America said. And he wasn’t. He sort of wished he were. He tried to push France gently away while not appearing to. Impolite, but not rude.  
  
“Hah! Very good. It is difficult to focus on business when one is in one’s cups. Ah, America. You have grown so … big.” And then France licked America’s chin. It was such a weird thing to do, but America felt those shivers along his skin again and every second became more and more aware of France’s body, pressed against him from toes to forehead. He hoped France wouldn’t feel those trembles or know how new and sort of … interesting this all felt to him.  
  
“Business?” America squeaked.  
  
“This is my favorite kind of business, dear boy. I should allow you to woo me further before we discuss it, but - ah! Diplomacy must what diplomacy needs. Friendship and trade and alliances are all very fine things. Let us go about getting them, shall we?” France slid his soft lips down America’s chin to his throat, slipping his tongue just under the edge of America’s fancy French cravat.  
  
America stretched his neck almost without meaning to, not sure he should encourage what France was doing but sure that he should learn new things, especially things that felt that good. Dreamily he thought back to their earlier conversation, about what it was he was trying to achieve -- _What shall I receive in return?_ France had asked. And then America realized. He grabbed the sides of France’s head and lifted it to face him.  
  
“You -- you want _that?_ Really?”  
  
“This is both a form of diplomacy, dearest, and a reward for it. You do it with those you love,” France said. He loosened America’s fingers from his face. Then he yanked off his own powdered wig -- which had been knocked askew -- and with an elegant flick of his wrist he tossed it behind him, not caring where it landed. His long hair was mussed, some strands stuck to his forehead with sweat and some falling from his queue to sway around his face. “Surely you realized?”  
  
“Well, I hadn’t expected it so soon …” America said, to cover the fact that he hadn’t expected it at all. He should have, given -- well -- France.  
  
France narrowed his eyes and pouted. “You have done this before, haven’t you? Perhaps with … England?  
  
America gasped. “No! England isn’t like that at all!”  
  
“Is that what you think? That old roué -- I would not have put it past him. So, have you never-- Are you truly that pure? As … big as you are?” France wiggled his hips, as if to bring America’s attention to his own erection, which he was perfectly aware of already and not a little embarrassed about, thankyouverymuch, France.  
  
America sighed. He wasn’t sure how he could possibly hide his inexperience in this area, if this sort of thing was to be expected of him. England had never even hinted that they could do that. “Yes.”  
  
France looked at the ceiling and said something that America’s hastily-learned French could not translate. Then his pout turned up into a smile -- a wide smile, a predatory and very happy-looking smile. “Ah! Then like you Americans, I shall pray to give my thanks.”  
  
France’s slow glide down America’s body seemed extra salacious because of how his gaze never left America’s, not until he was kneeling on the floor. But maybe that was just France. When he leaned forward to breathe, open-mouthed and hot, into America’s already interested crotch, America’s hips flexed upward, so hard and quick that it was probably rude. His thighs trembled with the effort to keep still.  
  
“Such wonderful noises you make,” France sighed. He squeezed America’s thighs, kneading them. “Would you like Big Brother France to indoctrinate you into, ah, Continental politics?”  
  
America took a few slow breaths and thought. The rudiments of sexual congress had probably been deliberately omitted from any of England’s lessons, for why would a mere colony, utterly subject to the rule of an empire, need to know how to seduce another nation? Plus, England hated most of Europe.  
  
America didn’t love Europe, either. But he liked France, and he really did want -- need -- his help in learning how to do things in the bigger world. And this stuff seemed like it might be enjoyable, if the beginning bits were any indication.  
  
“Yes.” America sat up and looked down at France’s smug and shining face between his legs. “But would you please stop calling yourself Big Brother? It -- uh--” _sounds kinda creepy_ “--makes me feel like a little kid.”  
  
“Oh, you are not a child, America.” France used his grip on America’s thighs to push himself up to stand.  
  
 _Ha ha, that’s good to hear_ , America wanted to say, but he suddenly felt unsure. He shoved his legs together to keep some of his dignity.  
  
France stepped away and flapped his hands. “Come! Get your clothing off.”  
  
America stared down at his own thighs, and his fingers shook as they fiddled with his now-crushed cravat.  
  
“America! You hesitate so.”  
  
America dragged his gaze up to look at France, who had already removed his shoes, stockings, breeches, jacket and waistcoat, and who was quickly divesting himself of his shirt.  
  
America gaped. “You get nakeder quicker than anyone I’ve ever known.”  
  
“It is an art. Let me help you to be as gloriously naked as I.” France pointed at America’s left leg, and America stopped gaping and lifted his foot into France’s hands.  
  
France managed to get America’s clothes off in record time, too, somehow not seeming to hurry at all. His fingers and the upward tilt of his lips seemed equally slow and teasing as he slipped the buttons free on the cuffs of America’s breeches and unrolled his stockings. But soon enough America was as naked as France and flat on his back on the bed, France kneeling over him. France pointed an index finger and tapped America on the nose.  
  
“Lesson one: care and attention are quite important because you should show your allies -- or potential allies -- your level of dedication to their amity.”  
  
“Uh huh,” America said.  
  
“Kiss me, won’t you?”  
  
The only kisses America had ever doled out were to England’s cheek. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips and lifted his face -- and kissed France’s chin. He could feel the light scrub of stubble against his lips. It made him acutely aware of France’s masculinity, his intimidating age and experience.  
  
“How sweet!” France laughed softly. “Let me show you.” He slipped his hand behind America’s head, cradling it so his thumb was brushing America’s ear, then tilted his head a little and pressed his mouth to America’s. It felt really nice, soft and wine-tinted, and it felt even better when America unpursed his lips and was soft back. France’s tongue in his mouth was a bit of a slippery surprise, but not a bad one. It made his insides feel all kind of melty-warm, especially when France drew shivery circles onto America’s bare chest with his fingers. America was warming up pretty quickly to amity-showing, and he could learn; he let his hands roam a little, too, exploring the shape of France’s ribs.  
  
“So, America,” France murmured after a while into that newly discovered sensitive spot on America’s neck. “You are having secret meetings with England, no? To discuss going back to him?”  
  
“Oh, Lord,” America said, clamping his thighs shut as France’s hand crept between them.  
  
But France just laughed. To America’s surprise and awe he instead curled his fingers around America’s cock; a thrill coursed through America’s nerves at such an intimate touch from an unfamiliar hand. “Lesson two. You must be open and honest with your allies!”  
  
America sighed and opened his legs. France was really being kind of splendid, the way he circled his fingers and glided them ever so softly along America’s cock …  
  
“Well, maybe some of my people and some of his people have been talking about ways to solve this without more fighting. He’s offered some terms we wished he had before this war ever started.”  
  
France’s hand halted its delicious movement. He propped himself up on his elbow so that he was smirking down at America. “Ah, that is unfortunate, for I have lied to you. Such honesty is dangerous, my sweet innocent.”  
  
“Ah! Oh, ha ha,” America needed a diplomatic recovery to that. Trying not to be too obviously placating, he wedged his own hand between them and touched France’s cock, running his fingers over the tip, softly, as France had his own. France _mmmm_ ed in apparent pleasure and America began to stroke a little more convincingly, up and down -- he’d played with his own often enough, he figured he ought to know what felt good. “Er. But those meetings are only a formality, and I’m sure they’ll all come to nothing because we’re committed to independence. And friendship with France.”  
  
“Oh! Ah, much better, America,” France whispered, kissing him lightly on the lips. He gently removed America’s fingers from his cock. “Let me show you something as a reward.”  
  
He reached behind him and produced a small jar of … something, which he set on the covers beside America’s hip. America briefly had time to wonder _where the hell was he keeping that?_ before he forgot to wonder because France was licking a trail down America’s breastbone to his belly, where he swirled his tongue just below America’s navel. America’s stomach muscles twitched, and the anticipation of where France might lick him next sent the rest of him into a state of near-paralysis. And then there was slippery heat on his cock, and oh, Lord, he’d never imagined that any reward could feel that good.  
  
For a few moments he could only strangle the bedcovers with his fingers and breathe harsh puffs through his nose, afraid to open his mouth for fear of what sounds might come out. America’s knees seemed to bend themselves as his feet sought purchase on the bed, to give him leverage to arch his back, lift his hips into that splendid feeling.  
  
And then he felt France’s slicked finger, or fingers, probing the cleft of his bottom and then pressing inside him, and he curled his toes and tried not to knock France unconscious by shoving his hipbone into his forehead.  
  
The sensation went on and on and on, and America couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, couldn’t get enough thought into his brain, because the surging throb in his belly was about to break; there was only so much stimulation he could take --  
  
And just as he was on the very cliff’s edge of spilling himself all over both of them, France slid his mouth off his cock with a wet slurp and a grin. America was left with only an unfulfilled ache and the pressure of France’s fingers inside him.  
  
“Uh _nnn_!” he moaned, whined almost. He looked down to see France gazing at him over his abandoned cock.  
  
“Very nice, my lovely America,” he said. Then he cocked an eyebrow. “But you have cast doubt into my mind. Lesson three: your allies must trust your word. As a new nation, your credentials are unproven.”  
  
“Unng _God_ ,” America sighed, dropping his head back onto the pillow. This diplomacy was tough stuff.  
  
“Hmm?” France said, waiting.  
  
“You -- you do realize, France,” America said, scrambling to collect some of the thoughts that lust had flung right out of his head. “Um. I’m still sort of newly on my own, and things make me nervous. But a formal friendship with you would -- uh -- make me feel better about telling England no. Once and for all.”  
  
France closed his eyes in something that looked like ecstasy. “Nngh,” he said, somewhat echoing America’s noise from earlier. “Oh, well done. You make me more eager than ever to have you -- ah -- as my ally.”  
  
“Oh, good,” America said. He started trying to sit up -- to maybe hug France, or to discover what he was doing with his fingers, still inside America’s bottom, that felt so odd and yet caused such a deep, pleasurable ache -- but France waggled a finger at him.  
  
“Keep your legs relaxed, just like that. I will show you what to do. And I promise you will like it, my friend.”  
  
America watched as France dug his fingers into the jar again, and then worked the slippery stuff onto his own cock, slowly, giving America a wicked wink when he caught him looking. Suddenly America remembered France’s masculinity again, and just as suddenly, his cock looked much larger than it had a few minutes previously.  
  
“Uh. Is that going inside me?” He had to know.  
  
“But yes! Lesson four: in all political negotiations, you must give as well as receive. But since you are unproven and still learning, I will take command of the more, hmm, tricky end of these negotiations for now.”  
  
“Ouch.” America looked back up at the bed canopy. He really couldn’t think of a suitable comeback for that.  
  
“It will be fine. Delicious, I promise. Have I led you astray yet?”  
  
America laughed despite his nervousness. “No.” On impulse, he sat up and reached out to clasp France’s shoulder, to draw him closer, and he kissed France’s smiling mouth. After a few pleasant seconds -- God, France’s tongue in his mouth, France’s fingers in his ass -- he pulled back. “Watch out! I learn quicker than anyone I know.”  
  
“I know,” France said. He nudged America back down on the bed with splayed, slick fingers. “You delight me.”  
  
And the whole thing was, so far, a delightful and educational experience for America. He wished he’d known about this sort of thing sooner … but that didn’t bear thinking about right then, not with France pushing close, slipping his fingers out of America’s body to nudge his cock in. America tensed when he realized that it would never fit.  
  
But France made gentle _shhhsh_ ing noises and guided America’s legs up, one bent back to his chest, one hanging over France’s arm, promising that this was honest, this time it was all right to be honest, and that this would help and all would be wonderful. A few deep breaths later France was inside him, and France was a terrible liar because it hurt like hell. His cock was the size of Brittany, at least.  
  
“America-- look at me,” France whispered. America dragged his unfocused gaze down from the canopy to see France bent close, his blue eyes wide and kind. “It is an honor, you understand, to be a nation’s first ally.”  
  
“Thank you,” America said, _for taking me seriously,_ he didn’t say, and held onto France’s shoulders. France stroked America’s belly as he moved, out and then somehow back in. It was … an interesting sensation, and after another minute or two it had become a more pleasant one. Another minute or two after that, America began to let his hips roll with France’s movements, little by little. Sweat broke out on France’s skin, making America’s fingers slip on his shoulders, and America had to clutch at France’s back to hold on, to stay close.  
  
“Very good, America,” France said after a while, his voice almost as breathy as America’s. “Beautiful, ah, beautiful. Such a mouse you were earlier! I feared you would faint.”  
  
Oh he had, had he? With a grunt, America hooked his bent knee over France’s shoulder and jerked his hips closer on France’s next thrust. Then the next one, and the next, until he’d caught France’s rhythm, until he burned inside. He wasn’t sure if it was a charming move, but he was more concerned at that moment with proving himself, somehow “Hah-- ah! You may not think so now, but I’ll be someone to reckon with. I won a pretty good battle a- at Saratoga. Hah!”  
  
“Oh! Oh,” France huffed back at him. “You have learned lesson five, dearest; boast of your military victories that that everyone knows you may -- _hunh_ \-- back up your claims. Now I will show you something else, hah.”  
  
Without breaking his rhythm, he pressed forward until America’s thighs were pushed back against his own chest again, then propped his hand next to America’s head and wrenched his hips upward and in; America’s bold thoughts disintegrated at the jolt of sensation that tore through his body, not only once but over and over as France thrust inside him at a more vigorous pace.  
  
“Ah! Unh, ah, uh,” was America’s comeback, the only sentence he could string together. His consolation was seeing how affected France was as well; the way his eyes were screwed shut in ecstatic concentration, the way his hair stuck to the sweat on his face as he moved, moved, moved. Now and then he pressed down to kiss America, the soft circling of his tongue a counterpart to the force of his hips, his soft _mmm_ s of breath broken by the sharp slap of skin on sweaty skin.  
  
After a while America felt that building, swelling ache again, that sense of rushing to the edge of completion, and France’s stinging, sweaty hand on his cock sealed the deal: America climaxed, without saying anything more pithy than _ah, yes, ah, thank you_.  
  
France wasn’t done yet, but he seemed to have lost his rhythm when America had tensed and spasmed; as the last vestiges of America’s climax drained out with his seed, France dug his fingers into America’s thighs and followed, squeezing his eyes shut as he jerked out his own completion.  
  
France kissed America’s chin, his forehead, and his nose and whispered what sounded like nonsense French at him. It could have been vital information, but America focused merely on catching his own breath. France did an elegant sort of sprawl onto the covers next to him, and America let his own limbs ease down to a more sprawled and relaxed position. He was naked and sticky, covered in sweat, covered in semen, and all of him stuck to the bedcovers. He was happy. Relaxed. France had wanted him; America supposed that all along _He_ just hadn’t. Or couldn’t. It didn’t matter; France was who he needed.  
  
France looked pleased. He swiped some strands of hair off his sweaty forehead, then reached out and did the same to America’s forehead. America found the gesture oddly kind and comforting.  
  
“Ah, America. You have made me more eager than I thought. Next time I shall not be so quick.”  
  
 _That was quick?_ America started to say, but he’d learned enough not to. Diplomacy seemed to require bravado, flattery and promises. “No, it was wonderful,” he said.  
  
“I agree! So -- is this the time where you should pray? Shall I give you a moment or two of silence?”  
  
America snorted and mock-slapped France’s fingers away from his forehead. “I’m fine, thanks.” Then he held up his hand, palm-out, letting it hang in the air until France laid his own flat against it. “And thank you.”  
  
“Hon! You should thank me when we are through. You will require at least several more lessons, you know. There are so many ways to make love, war, and alliances. I believe evenings will suit me, though Big-- France is ready at all times of the day.”  
  
“I’m sure,” America said. He looked forward to learning more.  
  
There was a minute or two of comfortable silence while they finished catching their breath. America took some time to examine the fine, silky bedcovers they’d gotten all mussed and dirty, the rich burgundy velvet bedhangings, the little gilt table next to the bed that held an artfully glassed candle. He didn’t know if he could ever become used to such luxurious surroundings, but it wasn’t a bad thing to spend some time among them. There was just such a great divide between the rich and the poor in this country, it seemed.  
  
At length France reached out to capture America’s cheek in his palm again, half-crawling atop him to look down at him.  
  
“I wonder how comfortable I should be, allying myself with a nation that is throwing off its hereditary and God-given monarch?  
  
America sighed. France did have a pretty entrenched monarchy -- and at times, a corrupt one, more corrupt than England’s; he at least had a parliament to temper his majesty’s madnesses. But it was not America’s place to liberate France, only himself.  
  
“It’ll be fine,” he said, finally. “Because I’m going to win, ha ha -- and you’ll want to be on my side.”  
  
“You give me very little reason to doubt,” France admitted. Then he waggled a finger in America’s face. “But this is war, and while I do like to wave my glove in England’s face, there are limits to what I may be able to provide. You already have a very fine warrior in my Lafayette, but … Hmm. I should convince Prussia to go to you, to train you. Perhaps you will have victory yet. We shall see.”  
  
America thought about that for a moment. “Prussia. I gotta do that with him, too?”  
  
“Not unless you want to.” France laughed. “And are very foolish,” he added.  
  
  
  
 **End.**  
  
 _Thank you for reading! Comments loved, concrit loved, any reply at all is loved._ Please, I'd be really interested to know if I got their relationship right, if it sucked, what. :)  
  
  



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